


when you took it all (you forgot your shadow)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 13:29:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3292043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma knows she’s safe before she even opens her eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you took it all (you forgot your shadow)

**Author's Note:**

> Brief notes because I am running SUPER LATE:
> 
> Title from "Shadow" by Sam Tsui. I am a terrible person who owes responses to reviews; I'll catch up on that ASAP. This was supposed to be way more supernatural than it ended up being and there will probably be another chapter. I just couldn't resist ending on that line.
> 
> Thanks for reading and please be gentle if you review!

Jemma knows she’s safe before she even opens her eyes.

She can hear the soft, steady beeping of a heart monitor and smell the distinctive mix of anesthetic and grapefruit-scented floor cleaner that characterizes all SHIELD trauma centers, but that’s not what does it. Neither is the lovely, soft bed she’s lying on—a welcome change from concrete—or the distant, floaty feeling she associates with very strong opioids.

No, what does it is the weight against her hip and the careful brush of fingers against her cheek.

Grant is here. She knows she’s safe.

She opens her eyes slowly, feeling warm and languid after—days? weeks?—of terror.  It’s a relief; when last she closed them, she was nearly positive that she would never open them again. But here she is, safe and alive, and Grant is perched on the edge of her hospital bed and wearing that _face_ he gets every time she so much as sprains an ankle.

“Hello,” she says—croaks, really—and his face softens.

“Hey,” he says. He takes her hand in his, careful of the IV, and gives it a gentle squeeze. “How you feeling?”

“Mm,” she says, and closes her eyes. She hates to do it, to lose the sight of his gorgeous face after so long spent longing for it, but her eyelids are just too heavy. “Like flying.”

He chuckles and presses a kiss to her forehead. “That would be the painkillers.”

“They’re lovely,” she asserts, and he chuckles again.

“You can go back to sleep,” he says. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“The others?” she asks.

“They’re fine,” he promises. “You can sleep. It’s okay.”

\---

She drifts in and out of consciousness for the next few days. Her injuries are numerous and SHIELD is generous with its painkillers, so it’s hardly a surprise, but it is fairly frustrating. Grant never leaves, but the others visit one at a time, and she only manages to stay awake for three minutes of Skye’s (very tearful) visit. And she wakes, once, to hear that she’s missed Fitz entirely, which is awful.

She’s awake for the whole of May’s visit, but it’s very brief and very puzzling. May hugs her— _hugs_ her!—and says, quietly and firmly, “You’ll be okay.”

Then she leaves, and Jemma is left to stare at Grant in utter confusion.

“You worried us,” he says simply, and retakes his customary position on the edge of her bed. He’s been in near-constant physical contact since she woke up, and he only ever leaves her side to make way for the doctors and nurses—who move around him with a pointed inattention that suggests he’s been making a nuisance of himself while she’s unconscious—and to give her a moment alone with the others.

“Yes,” she murmurs, trying not to think of her cell and her captors and everything they did. “I rather worried myself.”

\---

It’s hard to keep track of time when consciousness is so fleeting, but she thinks she’s been in the trauma center for nearly a week when she wakes to find Coulson sitting at her bedside. He’s looking tired and pale, and she starts to push herself up without thought.

Then she crumples back with a gasp, because _ouch_.

“Easy, Jemma,” Grant warns. He’s slumped in a chair in the corner, glaring at Coulson, and she wonders if they’ve quarreled.

“Careful,” Coulson says over him, and reaches out a hand to steady her. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“Sir,” she says, breathlessly (she thinks they must have decreased the dosage on her painkillers; that was much more painful than she was expecting). “Are you all right?”

“I think that’s my line,” he says, with a ghost of a smile that fades immediately. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” she says. “A little frustrated. I’ve been having a lot of difficulty staying awake.”

“Yeah,” he says, and rubs the back of his neck. “Simmons…it’s occurred to us that you might not know—you might not have realized…”

“Sir?” she asks.

“Jemma,” he says, gently and apologetically. “Haven’t you wondered why Ward hasn’t been in to visit you?”

She frowns at him, baffled, because he’s clearly _right there_. “I—”

“I’m so sorry, Jemma,” Coulson says, and he sounds shaky and uncertain, the way he did when he said _there’s still time_ , and suddenly her heart is in her throat. “Grant was killed during—during your rescue.”

She doesn’t understand.

Her eyes slide to Grant, who widens his eyes and shrugs, as though to say _Clearly not_.

Coulson is saying something—kind words, she’s sure, about Grant’s courage and dedication and how much he’ll be missed, that he didn’t suffer and it was exactly the way he would’ve wanted to go out—but she can’t comprehend him at all. She can barely even hear him. She’s too busy thinking—remembering the way the doctors have never glanced at Grant, how the nurses have worked around him as if he weren’t even there. How Skye cried. How Fitz didn’t stay long enough for her to wake up. How May actually _hugged_ her.

Grant’s innocent expression fades into an apologetic one.

“I wanted to tell you,” he says, quietly.

“No,” she says, and she means for it to be firm but she sounds like a frightened child. “No, that’s not—no.”

“I’m so sorry, Jemma,” Coulson repeats, and he leaves the chair to sit next to her on the bed, the same way Grant’s been doing since she woke up. He’s been here the _whole time_ , this is _impossible._

“No,” she insists. “You’re wrong—he’s not—he’s—”

 _He’s right there_ , she means to say, but Grant is looking away and making no move to join her, to offer comfort—to contradict Coulson—and her voice breaks and she’s sobbing too hard to speak.

Coulson wraps an arm around her shoulders and she folds against him, ignoring the pain it causes. She clutches at his shirt and sobs into his shoulder like he’s her father instead of her commanding officer, and all she can say is _no_ , over and over, as he strokes her hair and tells her he’s sorry.

And she _can’t breathe_ because she _doesn’t understand_.

\---

Coulson stays for hours, in the end; once she’s finished crying, he talks to her about funeral arrangements and bereavement leave and SHIELD-mandated counseling. She listens and says nothing, just spins her engagement ring around and around on her finger and keeps her eyes fixed firmly on her hands.

Grant is still there. She can feel him—feel his eyes burning into her—but he stays in the corner and doesn’t attempt to speak while Coulson is present.

Except once, at the very end.

“Oh, one more thing,” Coulson says, pausing on his way out the door. “John Garrett would like to visit you. To, uh, pay his respects. Would you be okay with that?”

She’s never met John. Grant speaks about him warmly and often, but in the three years they’ve been together she’s never once heard him mention visiting the man. He’s a mystery to her, one she’s always wondered about.

The prospect of a visit sparks a new emotion, one that she can actually pick out and identify, in direct contrast to the confusing tangle she’s been trying to ignore since Coulson said—said—what he said.

Curiosity. She’s curious about John.

But what if he blames her? If Grant is—if he was—

She can’t even think it. But the point is, what happened happened in the process of rescuing her, so will John hold it against her? What if he comes here and—

“You should,” Grant tells her. She finally looks up from her hands to find him a few steps from her bed, hands tucked in his pockets (and she realizes, suddenly, that he’s been wearing the same clothes this whole time—those jeans and that black Henley that she loves so much on him). He frowns at Coulson, still lingering in the doorway, and then gives her an earnest look. “John knows what you mean to me. He’ll look after you.”

She’d like to say she doesn’t need looking after, but seeing as she recently managed to get her own fiancé—

Well. After weeks of captivity, who is she to say she doesn’t need looking after? And curiosity is better than everything else she’s feeling, so…

“Yes,” she says, finally, and looks to Coulson. “That would be nice.”

“Okay,” Coulson nods. He’s looking at her with the sort of tenderness he usually reserves for Skye, and it makes her eyes well with tears again. She looks away. “I’ll let him know. In the meantime, get some rest. Would you like me to send someone in? Fitz or Skye?”

“No,” she says, choked. “Thank you, but I’d—I’d like to be alone now, please.”

“Of course,” he says.

As soon as the door has closed behind him, Grant is at her side.

“Jemma—”

“I don’t understand,” she says, helplessly. “I don’t—I don’t understand. You’re—”

“Dead,” he says, gently, and she covers her face. “I’m dead, Jemma.”

“But you’re _still here_ ,” she says into her hands. He takes her wrists and gently tugs her hands away from her face, and that’s another thing. “You’ve been—you keep _touching_ me. How can you be here—how can you _touch me_ —if you’re d-dead?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. He flexes his fingers on her wrist, watching her face. His grip is firm and his hip is warm against her thigh where he’s sitting on her bed, and she can smell his aftershave and he’s _right here_. Yet Coulson never noticed him, not once. “But I wasn’t about to leave you. Not without knowing you were okay.”

“I am _not_ okay,” she says, and pulls out of his grip. “I have never been _further_ from okay. I got you _killed_!”

“No,” he snaps. She tries to look away, and he cups her face in both hands and holds her still, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Listen to me, Jemma. What happened to me was _not your fault_.”

“If I hadn’t gotten captured—”

“No,” he repeats. “None of this was your fault. This was Coulson’s bad plan and SHIELD’s bad intel and the suicidal _bastards_ who grabbed you in the first place.” He leans in and rests his forehead against hers, and she closes her eyes. “This isn’t on you, Jemma. I promise you, it’s not.”

He’s so real, so solid. So sincere.

“You can’t be dead,” she whispers. “You can’t be.”

“I am,” he says, just as quietly. “I’m sorry.”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. Tears are threatening again. “Please.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. He pulls back, just a bit, then leans in again to press his lips to hers, and—

And now she knows it’s not real. There’s no spark, no passion—no _heat_. Even the chastest of kisses from Grant have always burned, in their way. But this—this is just gentle pressure, soft and sweet and _nothing_ like the real thing.

She loses her fight against her tears, but this time there’s no sobbing—just quiet crying. It feels as though all of the desperation, all of the _fight_ , has been drained right out of her, leaving nothing but a slow, creeping grief.

If it’s true—if he’s dead—

Grant wraps his arms around her and holds her close, strokes her hair and murmurs soothing things as she cries into his shoulder, and it’s both exactly the same as and completely different from the way she sobbed on Coulson earlier.

“Don’t,” she says, desperately, “Don’t leave me. _Please_.”

“I won’t,” he swears. “I’m right here. I’ll be here for as long as you need me.”

And she knows it’s not rational—knows that he’s _not here_ , that he _can’t_ be here, that not a single visitor she’s had since waking has so much as glanced at him—she knows it makes no sense, but she believes him.

She doesn’t know how long she spends crying, but by the time her tears finally slow, her head is pounding and her eyelids are heavy.

“You need sleep,” Grant says quietly. He’s still rubbing her back soothingly, and the gentle warmth of his hand isn’t helping her keep awake at _all_. “You’re still healing.”

She shakes her head against his shoulder. She doesn’t want to let go of him.

“Please,” he says, and leans away to meet her eyes. “I know you’re hurting. You need rest.”

She is and she does. But she’s terrified. She can’t bear the idea of letting go. He’s been here every time she’s woken so far, but what if he’s not, next time? What if, now that she knows he’s not real, he disappears?

She can’t voice it. She’s too afraid it will come true. So she just shakes her head again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, and she’d attribute his mind-reading to his status as a delusion if not for the fact that he’s _always_ been able to read her so well. “I told you I wouldn’t, and I won’t. I’ll be here as long as you need me.”

She’s always going to need him. She needs him forever, like he promised. Like he _swore_ when he proposed.

She needs the life together they were supposed to have.

But she knows he can’t give her that, so she takes a deep breath and nods.

“Okay,” she says, and lets him help her lie back. Between crying on Coulson and crying on Grant, she’s spent too long twisted into an awkward position, putting strain on her injuries. Even through the painkillers, she can feel the ache, and she thinks she’s going to be in agony tomorrow.

She’s already in agony.

Grant starts to ease away, and she’s seized by sudden panic. She catches his hand and says, “Wait.”

It comes out a little more desperately than she intends, and he stills.

“Just—could you lie down with me?” she asks. “Please?”

He runs his eyes over her, obviously taking in the various monitors attached to her—not to mention her injuries—and for a  moment she’s terrified he’s going to say no. Then he gives her a soft smile.

“I think we can manage that,” he says, and she breathes a sigh of relief.

He’s not really here. He’s a figment of her imagination, a product of her mind—comfort offered by her subconscious, which was obviously fractured at least a little by the torture she underwent at her captors’ hands.

But he _feels_ real, warm and solid and _familiar_ , as he wraps himself around her, careful to avoid her injuries. He feels real and he smells real and he looks real, as real as the kiss he presses to her temple as he pulls the covers up over them.

She knows he can’t be real. But he’s a good enough fake that she can’t bring herself to care.

As she slips into sleep, the last thing she feels is the sensation of his hand closing around her wrist, fingers resting deliberately over her pulse.

In the morning, her wrist is circled by bruises. 


End file.
